Coffee is the smell of childhood. And, in a way, envy. Parents brewing coffee on weekend mornings (and on weekdays too, but everyone had breakfast at different times). And a burning desire to try it, despite being told that it was too early for kids, bad for the heart, and so on.

Finally, around age 12, I was allowed a taste. And that was it—it began. True, it took some time to learn how to brew it myself, and until then I had to beg my mom to make some. But once I got the hang of it and got my hands on a cezve—game on. At first, I experimented with proportions. Playing with ingredients was harder, since the late-Soviet coffee market wasn’t exactly abundant—we brewed what we had. But after moving to Israel, everything changed. After many experiments, Costa Rican and Venezuelan beans became my go-tos. Later, while working abroad, I discovered Cuban coffee too. Then came spice trials. Cardamom, wildly popular in Israel, was ruled out immediately—it completely killed both the flavor and the aroma. Cinnamon, same deal. Only salt and pepper stayed—and that’s how I brew it to this day. And no, I still haven’t bought a coffee machine for home. But I do have three cezves.